


Mud in Your Eye

by abigail89



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, shitty day at work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 05:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3434924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abigail89/pseuds/abigail89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter has had an epically shit day. So has Leonard McCoy, MD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mud in Your Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Written for pissed_potter, part of the hp_reunion event.  
> Prompt: 11. crossover with whatever new!shiny fandom you're invested in  
> What I’m getting pissed on: Woodford Reserve Double Oaked bourbon. 
> 
> The whole point of pissed_potter was to drink and write Harry Potter fic. So I drank good bourbon and wrote Harry Potter/Star Trek crossover fic. It was a good night.

*~*

Harry Potter has had a shit day. I mean, the kind of shit day that you look back on many years from now and think, ‘Fuck me, but that was a shit day.’ In honour of such an auspicious day, Harry Potter thinks he deserves a fucking drink.

He enters the Muggle pub in east London, just after the ending of the worst day of his life, and looks around. He thought about just going home and hanging out at his pub, the one where everyone knows his name, but he didn’t want to be cheered up, told ‘tomorrow’s another day, mate’, slapped on the back, and hugged by Doris the waitress who is old enough to be his great-grandmum.

No, he wants to fucking _wallow_ in it.

The pub is dark; the juke box is playing some 1940s era blues on low, and there’s an old guy behind the bar who’s watching the game on the telly with a slack face and an unlit ciggy hanging from his mouth. The men—they’re all men—at the bar are drinking beer, all of them. Several have one to four pint glasses sitting in front of them. Serious drinkers, then.

 _Excellent_ , Harry Potter thinks. _My kind of Muggles._

He pulls off his overcoat, hangs it on the peg at the door, and walks to the end of the bar where there’s a couple of open stools. He slowly slides onto one, his back to the telly.

The guy next to him looks fucking miserable. I mean, the kind of miserable that makes your entire being hurt for the dude. He looks likes he’s lost his BFF, watched his dog get kicked, and came home to find his house burned to the ground. Harry resolves not to talk to the guy.

He may end up feeling much better.

Harry waves at the bartender who ignores him. “Christ, what do I have to do to get a fucking drink?” he mutters.

“Wave a bill at ‘im,” Mr. Miserable says.

“What?”

Mr. Miserable raises his face. “Wave a bill over your head. He pays attention when there’s money involved.”

Harry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a £5 note and waves it. The barkeep notices it and practically bounds over. Well, not really, but he does get to him quickly.

“What’cha want?”

“Beer.”

“Kind?”

“Surprise me.”

The bartender grunts and shuffles over to the draft station and pours a pint. He slides it to Harry, who stops it; a little sloshes over onto his hand. Harry regards it, shrugs and licks his hand.

The guy next to him guffaws. “That thirsty?”

Harry considers not answering the guy, but what the hell. Misery loves company. “No, just that fucking desperate to get pissed.”

It’s then the guy raises his face, and— _Holy fucking Merlin on a cracker!_. The guy has dark hair, dark features, hazel eyes, lush lips to die for, a face made for sinning. Or something like it. Harry didn’t even need to see the guy’s body. He knew it was just as fabulous as the guy’s face. And if it didn’t have the hang-dog look on it, it would probably cause a riot in a nunnery.

Harry shakes his head. _What the fuck is a nunnery?_

Harry takes his pint and downs it in a series of long, satisfying gulps. He puts the glass down. “Gimme another,” he says.

The bartender, fortunately, has not seen fit to go back to the other end of the bar, so he draws another. “Better watch it there, son. You’ll get drunk before you knows yer drunk.”

Harry glares at him and picks up the glass. He looks at Mr. Tall Dark & Handsome and downs it again.

“Kid, if you’re lookin’ to get drunk, all beer’s gonna do is make ya wanna piss and leave ya with a wicked hangover.” He picks up his glass. “Now this is for some serious drinkin’ and forgettin’.”

Harry looks at the glass the guy has wrapped in long, elegant, slender, strong fingers, and instantly has a vision of those fingers wrapped around his cock. “Sounds good. I’ll have what he’s having.”

The barkeep winces. “It’s yer liver, boy.”

“Hey! I am _not_ a boy,” Harry says hotly.

“Kid, don’t take it personally. And you do look a mite bit young.”

“I’m 23!”

The handsome man scoffs. “Sweet Jesus, you ARE a kid.”

“I am not.”

The barkeep returns with a finger of amber liquid in a tumbler. “Is that all?” Harry asks, outraged.

“Kid, try to keep up with me. My good man, leave the bottle.” He taps the bar.

“You payin’, mister?”

The man pulls out a wad of bills, and the barkeep reaches under the bar to hand him a new bottle; he opens it. “That outta do. Kid, follow me. We’re gonna do us some serious drinkin' and talkin’.” He nods his head, indicating they should decamp to an empty booth.

Harry considers blowing the guy off, but hell, he has booze and that’s what he wants. To drink and get stinking pissed.

They slide into the booth, the same side, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Harry is gratified and a little taken aback at the forwardness of this man, though, hell, he ain’t gonna complain. Then the penny drops. _His accent. He’s American._ He rolls his eyes. _Aaaamericans_.

“So kid, what’s got your panties in a wad?”

Harry, startled, replies, “What?”

“Why are you so dead determined to get drunk in record time?”

Harry takes a gulp, and nearly chokes. It’s like Firewhiskey, only not. It’s smooth with a back-bite that stings sweetly. “Because.”

“What’s your name?”

“Harry. Harry Potter.”

“McCoy. Leonard McCoy.” He pours another splash into Harry’s glass. “Glad to meet you, Harry.”

“Same.”

“Here’s mud in yer eye, kid.” The man— _no, Leonard_ —raises his glass and downs it.

“What the hell does that mean?” Harry asks. “Mud in your eye?”

“It means, kid, we’re gonna drink a lot of bourbon.” He pours a measure for both. “Here’s to ya.”

They drink again, and Leonard pours again. “So why are you so damned determined to get shit-faced?”

Harry drinks. “I have had a shit day.”

{abigail89 pours another 2-fingers of Woodford Reserve}

“So what’s your beef?”

Harry takes a sip and looks deeply into the liquid. “Got yelled at by my supervisor.”

Leonard laughs. “That all?”

“Because I let a murder suspect escape.”

Leonard huffs. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

“And I dropped a Coke onto the office floor. Was a bloody, unholy mess.”

“Rotten luck, there.”

“So why are you getting pissed, huh, Leonard? What’s got you down?”

Leonard takes a drink. “Lost a patient today.”

Harry considers it. “Yeah, that’s awful. Sorry.”

“That’s after losing one yesterday. And the day before.”

“Wow. That’s a really bad run of luck.”

Leonard pounds the table with his fist. “It has nothing to do with luck and everything to do with—“ He grabs his head with his hands— _Gods! His beautiful, surgeon’s hands!_. “I’m a fucking menace. I’m losing my touch. My technique. My life.”

“Shit, Leonard. I am sorry.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

Harry drinks. “Makes my problems seem petty.”

Leonard drinks. “It’s all about perspective.”

“It is.”

They drink in tandem. “So what’s really got you on edge, Harry? Work stuff—it blows over. It’s nothing. There’s something else bugging you.”

“Same could be said for you. I mean, yeah, it’s hurts to lose patients, but god, it’s probably not your fault.”

Leonard turns to face him. “What?”

“Look, I’m a. . .police officer" (yeah, try explaining ‘Auror’ to a Muggle) “and there’s a lot I do know about surgery.” Harry takes a drink. “Sometimes you get a patient and they’re just beyond what you can do, even the best can’t do anything. So think about it. How bad off were your patients when you got them?”

“Don’t try to console me, kid.”

“How bad, Leonard?”

Leonard drinks. “Pretty bad.”

“Well, there you are.”

“I repeat, what’s really your problem, kid?”

Harry slapped the table with his hand. “I’m not a kid. And for your information, the man I’ve been in love with for the past ten years got married today. And I was too much of a fucking coward to ever tell him the truth.”

Leonard pours him a half a glass. “Shit, kid. That’s just—shit.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Leonard drinks. “So why didn’t you tell him?”

“Oh, because he’s straight and was in love with the girl who’s now his wife for the entire time I was in love with him.” Harry drinks and then gives something like a sob. “And I never told him,” he grinds out.

Leonard drinks again. “Well, boo-hoo.”

Harry gapes. “Are you always an arsehole?”

“Yes. It’s my finest quality.”

Harry wishes he didn’t find Leonard so fucking attractive because at this moment, he really wants to smash his pretty face in. “Well, don’t be. My heart is completely broken and it’s my fucking fault.”

“Yes, it is.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I think I’m just going to leave now.” He stands. ‘Would you please move so I can get the hell away from you.”

“Aw, hell, kid. Sit down.” Leonard pours him another drink. “I’m sorry I’m being hard on you. It sucks and I’m sorry.”

“Thank you for recognizing that. Arsehole.”

“Pansy.”

“Fuckwad.”

“You’re pretty when you’re angry, and pissed,” Leonard says, then stares. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” Harry asks. “Where?”

“C’mon.”

Harry grabs the half-empty bottle. “Where?”

Leonard grabs his hand and drags hime across the pub. Harry stops long enough to snag his coat from the peg. “Leonard! Wait! Where—“

They’re out on the street and Leonard is moving much too fast for a man who’s imbibed most of a bottle of bourbon. _Oh, yeah. Leonard is tall, slim, and gorgeous. All over._ “Where are you—“

“Here.” Leonard yanks him into a narrow alley.

Harry finds himself backed up against a cold, damp brick wall and pressed into that wall by a hard chest and hot, lush, full, wet lips attacking his. _Oh, thank you, Merlin. And God. And Jesus. And—_

“You’re thinking too much, Harry,” Leonard drawls in that sinfully deep, luscious voice.

“I am,” Harry says. “Make me forget.”

Leonard kisses him again. Deeply. Wetly. Passionately. No doubt about it, Leonard was an expert, fabulous kisser.

“Jesus, do you live around here?” Harry asked between kisses.

“Yep. Come.”

They walk very quickly a couple of blocks, dodging people rushing to get out of the cold drizzle. Leonard pulls hard on his hand as the come to a stop at a dry cleaner. “Here.” He unlocks a nondescript door to the right and they tumble up a shabby set of stairs to another door.

“You have a lot of doors to unlock.”

“You have no idea.”

Finally, they’re through the door and fall into a minimally furnished flat. “You’re a fucking surgeon and you live in this shithole?” Harry says.

“Hey! I’m just here on a short-term fellowship,” Leonard says. “Come in here.”

They fall into an unmade bed. Leonard rolls on top of him and presses him deep into the covers, kissing him all the while. In his drunken stupor—-yes, he’s finally admitted he’s pissed as a peacock—-he feels Leonard kissing him tenderly and murmuring soft words into his skin, his hair, his lips. Harry is lost in feeling and the wonderful floatiness of the bourbon in his brain and Leonard’s lips on his. He smiles and pushes his erection into Leonard’s hip—or is it his thigh? Maybe it’s his abdomen. He doesn’t care. It’s delicious, this heat that’s growing between him and this man. He’s not Ron. No one will ever be Ron, but Ron is no longer available so maybe it’s time. . . .

And now, he’s coming with a rush, unbidden but welcome nonetheless. The bless-ed oblivion it brings is a comfort, and he gives in to it.

*~*

Harry blinks his eyes open, and instantly regrets it. The light coming through the window is weak but enough to make him wince. His head pounds; his mouth feels like something crawled into it and died. He rolls over, and finds himself alone.

He sits up. The room is sparse but neat. His clothes are folded on the floor beside him. A note under a glass of water and three aspirin. _Ha! Like aspirin can even touch this hangover_. Harry swings his feet round and plants them on the floor, leans over, and finds his wand in his overcoat. He takes a deep breath and then recites the incantation that—-Hermione, now Ron Weasley’s wife—-taught him all those years ago. His head clears, and he instantly feels much better. Except for the ache in his heart.

But it’s lessened by kiss-chapped lips and a promise of something--new.

_Harry—Here’s my number. Call me.  
Leonard._

Harry smiles. It's going to be an epic day.


End file.
